


Winging It

by kimpernickel



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Innuendo, Older Characters, Profanity, Tipsy Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimpernickel/pseuds/kimpernickel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pacifica Northwest acting as Dipper Pines's wingwoman is, somehow, worse than his sister acting as his wingwoman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winging It

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes it's nice to take a break from writing the same characters so you can write about different characters! 
> 
> This hovers around a high-T/low-M rating, so if you do not wish to imagine lovable cartoon characters as 21-year-olds getting drunk and talking about sex, this is not the fic for you to read.
> 
>  **Inspired by:** my first time in a bar (no wing-person activities, though): ["Sidekick"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jB6Ebol6eb8) by Walk the Moon; some dialogue from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jB6Ebol6eb8) nonsensical Buzzfeed video; nostalgia for the first four seasons of _How I Met Your Mother_ , as well as some unforgotten bitterness of the dreadful finale. **Expect:** sassmasters Dip  & Paz, innuendo, cursing, drinking and minor drug references.

Dipper taps his fingers against the polished wooden countertop of the bar, munching at the beer nuts in front of him. He sips his hard cider and glances at his wristwatch; the blaring music and chitter chatter of other patrons around him deafen him to the point he can’t hear his own voice in his mind. If it isn’t for the vibration of his phone in his pocket, he would’ve missed Mabel’s text. 

_Can’t be your wing gal tonite, bro-bro. Replacement on your way!_

Even if Mabel has a plausible and good excuse, it doesn’t change the fact that he gave up his Saturday night meant for a B-movie double feature with Soos. Mabel insisted that the two of them have a brother-sister night on the town.

“ _We haven’t done anything fun yet!” Mabel said. “Summer’s all about_ fun  _and all we’ve done so far is work for minimum wage in this dusty ol’ shack.”_

_“You like the Mystery Shack.”_

_“But work is sooooo boring, Dip. C’mon, let’s just put away all the monster biz and business biz and take the edge off with some beverages once denied to us because of our age but we started to drink when we were sixteen anyways. And maybe try your luck with the ladies?” She elbows him in the side and bounces her eyebrows._

Dipper growls at the words and types on his phone’s screen:

  _Seriously, Mabel! This was your idea. I’m leaving and you better have an excuse—_

A slender hand with trimmed, shocking pink nails snatches the phone out of his hands before he can finish his text message. He doesn’t have to look up to know who it is. “Pines, do you know how sad it is to be alone in a bar on Saturday night while everyone around you is having the time of their life?” Pacifica mocks with a matter-of-fact tone. She picks up his bottle of cider with her other hand. “And with  _cider_? If you’re going to be drowning your miseries in a full bar on a Saturday night, then you should at least drink a rum and Coke.”

Dipper yanks the cider out of Pacifica’s hands, along with his phone, which he shoves back into his pocket. “What color are those talons, Pacifica? Tutti Frutti Lemon Biscotti?”

Pacifica arches a single eyebrow at him. “A, biscotti doesn’t rhyme with ‘tutti’ or ‘frutti.’ Leave the rhyming to your sister. And B, it’s called Strawberry Margarita.”

“Sounds like your drink order.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Pines. A strawberry margarita sounds like  _your_  drink order,” Pacifica fires back. She flags down the bartender and orders a scotch on the rocks. “Put it on the Northwest tab.”

Dipper sips his cider, the bottle not even halfway finished. “Hard cider is delicious, I’ll have you know.”

“I know it is, but that’s not the drink you want to get drunk off of,” Pacifica retorts. Her scotch slides in front of her.

“So did Mabel send you here to be my wingwoman?”

Pacifica nods. “I owe her a favor, and she called me about thirty minutes ago saying how she’s stuck in traffic on the interstate after shopping in White Pine Bay with Candy and Grenda.”

“Mabel went to White Pine Bay?”

“You didn’t know that? Aren’t you two inseparable?”

“I mean, she said she was doing girl stuff with Candy and Grenda before we’d meet up, but she never said anything about White Pine Bay, and that’s like, two hours from here—”

“Three.”

Something isn’t adding up. Mabel  _always_  tells him if she is going somewhere. And why would she make plans with him in Gravity Falls but do beforehand shopping in a town three hours away? Dipper pulls his phone out again and dials Mabel’s number, but Pacifica pries it out of his hand and turns off the dial screen. “I spoke with her. They’re fine; there’s just some serious backup outside of White Pine Bay and it’ll be a while before they get back to Gravity Falls. So she sent  _me_  to be your wingwoman.”

Dipper sighs.  “And you agreed to that as fulfilling a favor  _because_ …”

“Nothing like running up your parents’ bar tab and watching them pull their hair out,” Pacifica smirks. After another swig of her scotch, she smiles another mischievous grin. “Also, I wanna see you make a hopeless ass of yourself in front of the interested, opposite sex.”

Dipper scoffs. “I’m not  _hopeless_.”

“So you admit to being an ass?”

“No! I’m not an ass, either.”

“I beg to differ.”

Dipper rolls his eyes, but he knows Pacifica only kids (at least, he  _hopes_  she kids). Bantering with Pacifica is a second language to Dipper. Unless deciphering codes is considered a second language, in which case, banter with Pacifica is a  _third_  language. And  _damn_ , can that girl’s tongue cut insults. But after ten years of friendship with Pacifica Northwest, Dipper knows when the mockery stops and the sincerity begins.

Still, hanging out with Pacifica after his sister suspiciously semi-ditched him is not what Dipper has in mind for the rest of a Saturday night. Especially not when that B-movie double feature is still on the table. He stands up and rummages for a few bills out of his wallet.

“Whoa, whoa,  _whoa_ , Pines. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Look, you don’t  _have_  to do this. I’ll tell Mabel you kept your end of the bargain, but if you don’t want to be here, I get it.”

“ _Please_. I didn’t have Monty drive out here and so I can order a scotch just to see my best friend walk up and  _leave_. No, no, no.” Pacifica wags her finger at him. “Sit back down. It’s Saturday night, dammit, and we’re hooking you up with one of these mildly desperate women—”

“I’m offended, and not just on my behalf, but on behalf of the other female patrons.”

“Or, you will be drunk enough to not remember just how much of an ass you’ll make of yourself.”

“ _You’ll_ make of me.” Dipper stands up again, but Pacifica pushes him down. “You can’t  _make_  me stay here, Paz.”

“I’ll cover your drinks.”

Dipper downs the rest of his cider and slams the base of the empty bottle onto the bar’s countertop. “I’ll have a rum and Coke, please,” he shouts over the boisterous noise.

* * *

“I know there’s nothing I can do about it right now, but what on earth made you think that was a good outfit?”

Dipper stares down at his attire: his usual summer dress of shorts and a t-shirt, complete with his rubber-toed black canvas sneakers, and a pair of socks. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

“Uh, have you  _seen_  yourself? You haven’t changed your wardrobe since I’ve known you. The only thing that changed is your height. You’re like an overgrown version of your twelve-year-old self, sometimes with some disgusting facial scruff,” She grabs his pine tree trucker hat and brandishes it in front of him. “See? You’ve been wearing this same hat since I first  _met_  you. Do you honestly think any girl is going to look at you in these rags and think, ‘yes, that is the next guy I will end up sleeping with?’ You’re not giving me much to work with, Pines. ”

“Okay, seriously, that’s uncalled for. Who said anything about sleeping with me?”

Pacifica snorts. “Isn’t that the whole point of picking up someone at a bar? You’re not looking for a meaningful relationship. It’s all about one night stands. Short flings at the most.”

Dipper finishes off his rum and Coke. Is it the alcohol that made him warm all over, or the amount of people filing into the bar? Both? Or is it Pacifica and her weird knowledge of how flirting at bars work?

“Are you speaking from experience?” he quips, hoping it will fluster Pacifica.

Instead, she sets his trucker hat on her head and shrugs. “I’ve had my fair share at Brown.”

“Oh,” is all Dipper can say in response, at least for a few seconds before he can comprehend what Pacifica’s just mentioned.  _Ohh._ “But I’m not really a one-night-stand or short-fling kind of guy.”

Pacifica moves on from the scotch to a bottle of imported beer. “That’s right, you dated that one chick a few years ago. What was her name? Madeline? Marjorie?”

“Marisa.” Dipper answers with a newfound despondency. This isn’t a subject he wants to talk about. Especially not with  _Pacifica,_ who is so obviously trying to grind his gears with pretending she couldn’t remember his ex-girlfriend’s name.

“Oh yes, Marisa Gonsenhauser. You two dated for like, five years.”

“It was two and a half.”  _Five semesters at Stanford and the breaks_ _between count as two and a half years_ , Dipper breaks down.

“She was nice.”

“Uh huh.”

“I liked her.”

“I did too.”

“No, like, I didn’t get to hang out with her much, but the few times she visited you up here, I thought she was a good match for you. That whole ‘you complete me’ crap, it worked with you two. Weren’t the two of you both history majors?”

“She was an international relations major, but she took a few history classes.”

“Yeah, well, she was always hanging off your every word and making these lovey-dovey eyes at you, and she just brought this  _glow_  out of you. Why’d you two break up anyways? It was so abrupt. Like, one day you two were this happy as a clam couple, and the next you two were no longer together.”

Should he tell Pacifica? He remembers telling Mabel on the phone as soon as it happened, and blurting it to his roommate and best college friend Zack. But all Pacifica ever received was a casual  _“Marisa and I broke up.”_  She never asked for an explanation, so he never gave one. Until now, that is.

“She said I was too distant.”

“Distant? Like, the emotional kind of distant? Because isn’t she from Sacramento? That’s not far from Piedmont, right?” Pacifica nips her beer. “Not that I pay attention to California’s geography or anything.”

“Yes, the emotional kind of distant,” Dipper replies. He  _really_  should stop talking about this. “She dumped me right before finals week.”

“Oh, bitch move, Marisa Gonsenhauser!” Pacifica shouts.

“I…wouldn’t say that. Marisa had her reasons. I  _was_  emotionally distant towards the end.” Dipper recalls the last few months of his longest-lasting romantic relationship. As department representative, he had faculty meetings to attend and conferences to schmooze at. Research papers demanded writing, and his job at the campus bookstore was running low on staff. Marisa understood. All of that was normal college kid stuff.

But the nightmares involving Bill weren’t, and Marisa couldn’t have understood  _that_. No one did, except Mabel, Grunkles Stan and Ford, and Pacifica. 

Pacifica shakes her head. “I don’t believe you. You are one of the few guys I know who is not emotionally distant at all. You and Mabel always share your feelings, and if you’re not sharing them with Mabel, you’re sharing them with me.” She doesn’t bring up how he neglected to share the details of his breakup with Marisa.

“Maybe that was part of the reason,” he mumbles before the rim of his rum and Coke class meets his lips.

“Pardon?” Pacifica asks.

“Nothing.”

Pacifica glugs at her beer, and wraps an arm around Dipper’s shoulders. “Listen here, Pines. I’m assuming you haven’t been with a girl since Marisa Gonsenhauser broke up with you a few months ago, and you  _claim_ you’re this commitment kind of guy. But  _tonight_ , you, Dipper Pines, are getting laid, and you’re going to forget all about her.”

With Pacifica in an even closer proximity than before, Dipper heats up. It’s the alcohol, though, it  _has_ to be. Maybe Mabel’s claims that he is a lightweight are  _true_ (though Mabel has never seen him at a Stanford frat party). Pacifica’s soft flaxen hair smells of sugar and apricots, but there’s also the scent of beer and salt, and underneath that, a flowery perfume. They stare and smile at each other, the tips of their noses almost touching.

“You’re gung ho about this, aren’t you?”

Pacifica retreats back to her seat, but the sweet-and-savory aroma lingers around him for a moment or two. His shoulders also feel colder without Pacifica’s arm around them. “I’m just living up to Mabel’s expectations as a wingwoman. She’d be crushed if I failed you.”

Dipper laughs as Pacifica stands up and grasps at his wrist. “Two more beers for us,” she indicates to the bartender. “Northwest tab.”

Dipper dislikes beer, but he keeps quiet.

* * *

At the touch screen jukebox, Pacifica picks a Top 40 hit that Dipper will never admit to singing in the shower (but has, countless times). They lean against the wall, scoping out the suitable female crowd.

“How about her?”

“Who?”

“Redhead in the mint green sundress and matching fuck-me pumps at ten o’clock.”

Dipper studies the girl Pacifica points out. With her heels, she’s just about as tall as him. “Paz, you wear heels like that.”

“Not right now, and  _not_ the point.”

Dipper notices for the first time since Pacifica waltzed into the bar that she is, indeed,  _not_ wearing her usual heels. Rather, the shoes on her feet are patent leather ballet flats, without a doubt worth more than he makes in a week at the Mystery Shack. He sometimes forgets how Pacifica is an average height of five feet and five inches. The heels she often wears brings her to Mabel’s five-ten.

 Pacifica charges on with her quest, still motioning to the redheaded girl. “She seems like fair game.”

Umm, maybe.”

“ _Maybe_? Don’t you have a thing for redheads? Wendy Corduroy, Marisa Gonsenhauser, that one cashier at the mall, probably more I can’t think of…”

Huh. Even  _Dipper_  hasn’t noticed his attraction to redheads.

“She is cute.”

As if on cue, the ginger leans over and kisses the leather-shorts clad, raven-haired pixie cut girl she’s been talking to.

“ _Okay,_ never mind.” Pacifica scours the field once again. “Oh, three o’clock from the bathrooms.”

Dipper turns his head and examines the short olive-skinned brunette in yellow as she strides towards them. Before he can make his snap judgment, Pacifica disrupts him. “Never mind, she’s out of your league.”

“Hey, how do you know that?”

“That’s Alicia Sanchez,” Pacifica whispers. Her breath is hot and raspy in his hear. “She went to the same prep school as me, and if nothing’s changed from graduation, she  _will_  destroy you.”

Once again, Dipper can’t get a word out. The supposed Alicia Sanchez stops in front of them. “Pacifica? Pacifica Northwest, is that you?”

Dipper watches the scene unfold. Pacifica smiles. In the odd lighting and the blue neon glow of the jukebox, he can’t tell if it’s fake or genuine. “Alicia! Oh my God, I haven’t seen you since graduation! I forget, where are you going now?”

“USC. And you’re Ivy League, right? Dartmouth? Harvard?”

“Brown.”

“Oh, right. You know, I still remember your salutatorian speech. Pretty inspiring stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” Pacifica dismisses. Dipper stifles back a smile; Pacifica isn’t that interested in reliving prep school. For four years, he listened to Pacifica bemoan the school and a majority of her peers. “What’re you doing in Gravity Falls?”

“Bar hopping. Gwen insisted that we try this place, which, I gotta say, considering we came out all this way, it isn’t too bad. The drinks are good, and the guys are pretty hot.” Alicia’s eyes flick over to Dipper, and she smiles at him. “I don’t think Pacifica’s introduced us…”

He holds up a hand. “I’m Dipper.”

Pacifica seizes the hand and laces the fingers with hers. “He’s my boyfriend.”

Alicia’s face falls. “Oh, that’s…something.” She doesn’t stick around much longer. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Pacifica. Hope your summer’s going well.”

Pacifica waves goodbye and releases her old on Dipper’s hand once Alicia saunters away to a dark corner. Like before with his shoulders, his hand goes cold. “What just happened? Aren’t you  _supposed_  to hook me up with interested girls? She seemed interested.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with Alicia Sanchez, no matter  _how_  meaningless the sex is. I hate to perpetuate the stereotype that all women are wanton temptresses who will eat men alive, but I think that description fits her well. She’s a siren.”

“Wait, literally? I haven’t come across sirens yet, but the journals say a lot about them—”

“Oh my  _God_ , Dipper, no, she’s not a  _literal_ siren.” Pacifica shakes her head and finishes off her beer. Then she lifts an index finger at him and points with accusation. “You’re not making it easy for me to be your wingwoman, you know? Your outfit, your nerd talk. You’re the worst…”

Her last sentence slurs a little as she searches for a word to use. The blue light falls on her blonde tresses, illuminating them to a light bluish-purple hue. Ten-inches-shorter-than-him Pacifica stares up at him, still thinking and deciding what to say. She's reminiscent of a fairy (a pretty movie version, not the actual fairies he's dealt with before). Dipper chuckles at the sight and drinks another gulp or two of his beer. 

* * *

Forty-five minutes pass, and all of Pacifica’s attempts turn up empty-handed.

“Maybe you’re a bad wingwoman.”

 “Maybe  _you’re_ a bad subject.”

Dipper frowns. “No I’m not. Mabel’s helped me score a few numbers before.”

Pacifica tilts her head towards him and shoots a knowing glare. “And did you ever  _call_  those numbers?”

Dipper shrinks in his stool. “No…”

“Bad subject,” she repeats. She spins around and spins back towards him. “Don’t look now, but there’s a gaggle of girls just walking in, and they’re heading over to the bar.” She stands up from the table and guides him towards a space right where the girls file. She whispers, “Now, how would Mabel handle a situation like this?”

“She usually just throws an arm over my shoulder and says, ‘Hey girls! Haaaaaave you met Dipper?’ And then she leaves.”

Pacifica wrinkles her nose. “I love your sister and all, but that’s an amateur move. It sounds like something out of a clichéd sitcom.”

“It’s worked before!” he rasps.

“ _Puh-lease_ ,” Pacifica dismisses, “I have a better idea.” She sets both of her hands on Dipper’s shoulders and stands up straight with her chin held high. A quick, sly smile adorns her lips, and Dipper loses himself in how confident Pacifica looks almost every time they interact. Even when she’s a tad tipsy from the scotch and three (or four?) beers in her system, Pacifica holds her ground. That’s when she raises her voice. “Dipper, I’m sorry—”

“About what?” he asks, confused at what Pacifica could ever be apologetic about. Pacifica’s apologies only occur when they are alone, and she’s on the verge of tears.

“We can’t see each other anymore,” she projects in a clear, enunciated voice.

“What?” Dipper glowers as his face scrunches together.

“You are too sexually advanced for me—”

“ _Pacifica_!” he screeches, and by now, he knows it isn’t  _just_  the alcohol that warms his chest and his face.

Pacifica shushes him with a finger to his mouth. “And always emotionally present,” she adds. “I just can’t take it anymore, you deserve someone far,  _far_  better than me.”

“ _Pacifica_ ,” he growls under his breath, but Pacifica darts away and, over her shoulder, flashes a wink and a thumps up. He’s about to follow her to the opposite corner of the bar, but a tap on the shoulder interrupts him.

* * *

“Dipper Pines, it is eleven o’clock P.M., and you  _still_  don’t have your hand halfway up a girl’s shirt or your tongue in her ear.”

“Wow, you are really degrading your own sex tonight, aren’t you?”

Pacifica ignores him. “I saw you talking to one of those girls. It looked like you two were hitting it off.”

“We were,” Dipper answers, and he reaches in his pocket for a slip of paper. “She gave me her number.”

“Ugh _, no_. Stop asking for their numbers. Ask if they want to go back to your place.”

“I don’t  _do_ one night stands, okay?” Dipper grumbles. “Look, I appreciate that you’ve stuck it out with me tonight, but I’m just not interested in any of that.” He breaks eye contact with her and sighs. “I think I’m just going to head back and catch the late night marathon of  _Ghost Harassers._ ”

Pacifica sets a hand on his arm. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean, I’m not  _sorry_  for trying to score you a lay,” Pacifica clarifies. “Like, that last trick up my sleeve? That was—”

“ _Embarrassing._ ”

“ _Hilarious_ ,” she corrects. She pulls her hand away and crosses her arms over her chest. “ _But_ , I hope you at least had fun on a Saturday night.”

Dipper snatches his hat off of her head and props it back over his fluff of brown curls. “I…uh, I did,” he says. And it’s true. Joking around with Pacifica is fun. Even when she tries to send him into the arms (and sheets) of other girls.

Pacifica smiles. “Well, that’s good. Then I’ve done my duty, and I can report to Mabel tomorrow. Would you like Monty to give you a ride back to the Shack?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I called for a cab when you were in the bathroom. It’ll be here in about five to ten minutes, I think. So, uh, see you later.”

Dipper stands and strides to the door, but Pacifica scurries to his side. “So are you really just gonna go back to your hovel and watch nerd TV until you fall asleep?”

“Yes.”

“That’s sad.”

“It’s not sad. It’s entertaining.”

“It’s only entertaining if you have pizza and company. It’s Saturday night, dammit, and we can’t end it with you alone in your room.”

Dipper opens his mouth, doesn’t even bother with retorting. With all the might that a five-foot-five blonde girl has (which is more than Dipper has at six-foot-three), she shoves him to the exit.

* * *

At one in the morning, the half-finished pizza rests in its box, set atop the seat of the armchair. Dipper and Pacifica sit in front of the television, watching as the next generation of Ghost Harassers search for spirits in an abandoned plantation manor in Georgia. The alcohol’s more or less faded out of Dipper’s system, but his head will spin if he turns too sharply. Every five minutes, he checks his phone.

“Mabel is  _fine_ ,” Pacifica asserts.

“But she hasn’t called or texted me, and what if they’re still on the interstate—”

“Mabel has Candy and Grenda. Between the three of them, if anything happens, they will notify us as soon as possible.”

“But—”

“Phone,  _now_.”

Dipper concedes with an exhale, and hands the phone over to Pacifica. She tosses it over her shoulder, and a light  _thud_  of the carpet follows.

“Seriously, was that necessary?”

“Yes,” Pacifica nods. “Absolutely necessary. You’re going to kill the battery.”

“I have a charger upstairs.”

“Whatever. Just sit back and watch the Harassers do what they best—harass ghosts.”

Dipper obeys his orders and leans against the foot of the chair. He clutches his legs to his chest and the episode drones on for another fifteen minutes. A commercial disrupts the harassers right as they overhear a creepy, off-screen voice.

“Maybe you’re a bad kisser.”

Dipper jumps in his skin. Pacifica gives no reaction to his reaction; she’s lost in thought, her eyes to the dark ceiling above.

“Excuse me?”

“Think about it. Maybe you give off pheromones that only females can pick up, and these pheromones say you’re a bad kisser.”

Dipper waves a hand in front of Pacifica’s eyes. He looks up at him.

“That’s a terrible idea. Are you still a little drunk?”

“Maybe a little tipsy,” Pacifica shrugs as she reaches for another slice of pizza. She nibbles a few bites out of it before tossing it back into the box. “Bad-kissing pheromones. It makes sense.”

“That sounds like something a high person would say.”

Pacifica sticks her tongue out. “Eugh, weed is disgusting.”

Dipper cocks his head with a smile. “What do you get up to at Brown?”

“The Ivy Leaguers work hard, and they party harder,” Pacifica winks. “Isn’t it the same at Stanford? Ivy League-lite, for the West Coast?”

Dipper chuckles, but a discomfort burrows itself in his chest. A silence settles between them.

“I’m not a bad kisser, by the way,” he pipes up.

“Pardon?”

“I’m  _not_  a bad kisser,” he repeats, louder and emphatic. Just from his assertion, it sounds like he  _is_ a bad kisser trying to avoid emasculation.

Pacifica laughs. “Yeah,  _okay_ , Pines.”

Maybe there’s enough alcohol in him left because Dipper is certain that is what does the talking for him. “I can totally prove it.” He perches himself on his knees and shins.

Pacifica stops her giggling to look at him in the eye, unwavering and direct. Then she snorts, and chides, “Yeah, so are you going to call up Marisa Gonsenhauser at one in the morning—”

Dipper’s lips collide against Pacifica’s, with his hands on her shoulders. Oh yes, the alcohol’s still inside of him, and it controls his actions. Pacifica’s shoulders tense, and her lips are motionless, but they  _are_ soft, with the taste of pizza, beer and…sugary cherries. It’s the remaining residue of her lip gloss; when Dipper pulls away, his own lips are a little sticky.

“See?” He can’t help but to take  _some_  pride in that. After all, he had the element of surprise to back him up.

Pacifica blinks and wipes her mouth with the back of hand. Should Dipper be offended? He didn’t even  _use_  tongue, and such a move implies sloppiness.

She frowns at him. “It wasn’t…bad.”

“Uh  _huh_ …”

“But it wasn’t  _good_ , either.”

Okay,  _now_  Dipper is offended. “You’re lying. I’m a  _great_  kisser.”

“Umm, I might agree with you  _if_  you let me have a chance to kiss you back,” Pacifica snaps.

Dipper’s shoulders shrink, but his mind clicks into place. “Wait a moment. I think that means you want me to kiss you again?” He smirks at her.

Pacifica is resolute and steadfast in her response. It’s almost like a business transaction. “Yes.”

“Because I’m a good kisser?” He flashes a grin at her.

“Because I still need to determine whether you  _are_ ,” she spits, and with a shove of her hands, she pushes him until he stumbles back onto his bottom. “That way I’ll know for next time when I’m your wingwoman, and if I have to lie.”

Dipper huffs, but inches closer to his best friend. It’s more awkward this time around because they both consciously  _know_  they are going to kiss each other. Dipper snakes his arms around her waist and guides her towards him. Pacifica winds her hands around the back of his neck. Their lips press together, both of them active in the motion. The taste of beer, pizza, and cherries returns to him, intoxicating him in the most delightful and tantalizing manner.

Seconds tick away, and they forget about the Ghost Harassers and their mission in Georgia. For a simple, close-lipped kiss, it’s nice…it’s  _good._ Kissing Pacifica Northwest is its own sensation, desirous and tender. Their equal forces of pressure act upon each other, and it isn’t long until one of Pacifica’s hands threads itself into his hair to bring him even closer. Dipper’s own hand slides from the small of her back to the top of her rump. Dipper isn’t too sure it’s the alcohol telling him what to do anymore, but it breaks down his inhibitions. Almost in sync, both of their lips part, and this kiss takes on a level of its own as they pull apart for split seconds to find air, only to find each other again.

Everything else fades away while Dipper’s insides boil. He never expected this. Ever. Kissing, no,  _making out_ , with Pacifica Northwest? Him, and  _Pacifica_? He ignores the voice in the back of his mind telling him to stop because this is  _Pacifica Northwest_ , salutatorian of her prep school and maintaining a three-point-eight grade point average at Brown University (and she insists _he’s_ the nerd), also his and his sister’s best friend. Instead, Dipper leans forward and presses Pacifica’s back against the carpet of the living room. His mouth moves from hers, and he peppers her neck with a trail of little kisses until he reaches the dip of her collarbone. He has no intention of stopping any time soon until he feels Pacifica’s fingers at the hem of his shirt.

Dipper jerks his head up. “Wait,” he breathes, and gathers himself to his feet. “What are we doing here, Paz?”

Pacifica props herself on her shoulders. Her makeup smudges around her eyes and her blonde locks are mussed, but even then, she’s a picture of high class sophistication and grace. She pants. “I…I don’t…I don’t know. I’m…I’m trying to figure out if you’re a good kisser.”

Dipper  _has_  to indulge himself. “Am I a good kisser, then?”

Pacifica sits up and folds her arms in front of her. She closes her eyes and breathes a heavy, prolonged breath. “I was about to take your shirt off and fuck you. I think that’s answer enough.”

Dipper’s head swims— _not_ alcohol. “Oh, um, right.  _That._ ” He holds his hand out to Pacifica and helps her stand. She smooths her skirt, an obvious sign that she’s not going to meet his eyes.

“Yeah….um, what… _was_  that?”

“What part?” Pacifica sounds exasperated and bored now. It’s only until after she finishes speaking when she gazes up at him.

“All of it.”

She shrugs. “Dunno.”

“Then it’s a good thing we stopped.”

“Mhmm.”

“Because I don’t do one night stands.”

“No, you don’t.”

“ _Especially_  not with my best friend.”

“Mabel would have a field day.”

“Yes. Mabel would.”

Pacifica nods her head at a pace so rapid, she looks like a bobble-head figure. “It’s for the best if we never think about it again.”

“Agreed.”

They stand in the silence and darkness of the living room. The sole blue light of the television flickers, with the Ghost Harassers arguing over some piece of technical equipment.

“Should…should I call you a cab?” Dipper asks.

Pacifica bites her lower lips before another nod, this time slower, almost hesitant. “Better not to wake up Monty at this hour.”

Dipper fishes for the phone Pacifica tossed on the floor near the couch. But before he can dial the cab company, Pacifica grabs the phone out his hand, again, and tosses it, again. She yanks at the collar of his shirt and brings their mouths together for a crash-landing. Dipper wants to hold her close and develop even more heat and friction between them, but his conscience directs him to wrench her off of him.

“Pacifica—”

“Yeah, I know you don’t do one night stands, but who said it’s going to be that?”

Pacifica leans in once more for a kiss, but Dipper ducks away. “And who said this was going to be a long-term relationship?” he counters.

“No one.”

“Exactly.”

“ _But_ ,” Pacifica hisses, “let’s worry about it in the morning.”

“That’s the alcohol talking,” Dipper frowns, even though he suspects all the kissing sobered them up.

“Who cares?” Pacifica grouses. She squares her hands on his shoulders. “Right now, _I_ want this…”

Dipper’s eyes widen. “You do?”

“And _you_ want this…”

“ _I do_?”

“Dipper, please. This is _me_ we’re talking about.” Pacifica skids one of her hands from his shoulder down his arm before it meets his hand. Goosebumps form on the back of his neck as her slender fingers intertwine with his broader ones. He’s glad she hasn’t chosen another spot, much lower, to touch. “And, I mean, you _were_ the one who got all defensive about being a bad kisser. Which, you’re not. You’re a great kisser.”

Dipper almost thanks her, but Pacifica lets go of his hand and sashays to the foot of the staircase. She pivots on her heel and smiles at him. Not even a seductive, sultry smile. Just a small, gentle smile.

His heart beats and beats while his mind screams at him. _Back out now, Dipper. Bad idea. Terrible idea. Up there with making deals with Bill Cipher._

“You _did_ want to get a girl in my bed…” he croons. He approaches Pacifica at the staircase banister and swoops down to kiss her.

“I did, didn’t I?” Pacifica plays along as they step up the stairs together. “Maybe I’m a good wingwoman after all.”

“Or a really bad one, keeping me all for yourself.”

Pacifica nudges his side with her elbow, and Dipper almost slips off the stairs. She giggles and scurries up the rest of the stairs, and once he obtains his footing again, Dipper charges after her.

_Yep. This is not one of your better ideas, Dipper._


End file.
